Out of the Box
by The Reviews Lounge Too
Summary: Sometimes people don't have the courage to try new things. Inside this new collection of multi-fandom one-shots, as written by The Reviews Lounge, Too forum regulars, our many different characters explore the process of new experiences. R&R!
1. EHWIES: Divide

**Divide  
**

Author: EHWIES

Fandom: The Sims 2

Claim: Goneril Capp

There's a river in Veronaville, that quaint little town on the east coast of SimNation, only Veronaville isn't really quaint and the river splits it right down the middle. It's one of those towns where half the population shares the same last name, only there are two founding families here in Veronaville, the Capps and the Montys—Montys to the east and Capps to the west—and the river divides them, and half of each family is dead.

The Capps have been in disarray for a while now, ever since Caliban and Cordelia died in that godawful fire, the one people don't talk about anymore. Cordelia's sister Goneril should know-Cordelia was the heiress, and Goneril was the spare, only Cordelia had enough time to pop out three kids before she kicked the bucket, so Goneril wasn't going to be needed after all. There were a few months of chaos and mourning and anticipation when they thought the heiress title might be Goneril's after all, and oh, how Goneril _wanted_ that title, wanted her parents to whisk her away to Capp Manor and away from this life, away from the daughter she didn't want and the husband who loved that daughter more than he ever loved her. Cordelia had always been the heiress, and Goneril had always been the spare, and for five precious months of deliberation Goneril had _believed_ she'd be the heiress now-but they loved Cordelia more, they'd always loved Cordelia more, so the honor went to Goneril's bratty little niece Juliet instead.

Cordelia was pretty and flighty and unafraid to rebel against Consort. He hadn't thought her smart enough to go to college, instead offering her a junior executive position at the company and enough shares for a seat on its board of trustees; she took the shares but also enough of his money to enroll at Sim State University against his will. Within a semester, she'd landed herself on probation and nearly flunked out once or twice, but Cordelia pulled off a degree in Economics and enough smarts to start out four years later as a senior manager.

The board didn't like her. Goneril had already been working for the company at the time; she'd graduated high school two years after Cordelia, skipping college and hiring in straightaway like her father wanted (she was always doing what her father wanted, always always always)-she'd already been working for the company, so she'd been there on Cordelia's first day, that fateful board meeting when all her sister's ideas embarrassed the family name. And probably, if it were Goneril, Consort would have been _so_ angry, would have had half a mind to fire her right then and there, but it wasn't Goneril, was it, it was Cordelia, Mother's favorite daughter and the heiress to the Capp family fortune, so Consort gritted his teeth and shot down her suggestions and reminded himself that Cordelia could do no wrong.

The board liked Goneril better, but Consort and Contessa _loved_ Cordelia better-and so even though Cordelia never quite got around to inheriting anything, it was her bloodline, not Goneril's, that secured the right to the manor and the money and the company. Goneril should have known. She should have.

But for a few months of chaos, she'd let herself believe otherwise.

Goneril had just the one daughter then, Miranda, a spunky little toddler with a heart of gold, but Goneril knew they couldn't have that. She has three more kids now, Hal and Desdemona and Ariel, and the three of them are young, but she's squashed all the spunk and the heart out of Miranda, and Goneril isn't quite sure whether she should be proud or ashamed.

She's spent years at it, destroying Miranda, the daughter who was _so close_ to being in Juliet's place, and now Juliet is missing and Goneril's father is dead. Her mother, Contessa, has been dead for a while now, but nobody cared when Contessa crossed over; Consort's the one who counts, because he's CEO of the company. Nobody knows what the company sells, exactly, or how long it's been around, but it's Consort's now-at least, it was until now. He's been dead for a couple of months, and Goneril was acting in his place while they were looking for the will, and everything is still unclear even now that they've found it because he left the company to Juliet and Juliet is missing. They think it'll go to Juliet's sister, Hermia, now, but Hermia's still in school anyway, so that doesn't do them any good, now, does it?

The only clear bit is Consort's directive that, until Juliet (Hermia?) is of age, the company's CEO won't be Goneril. It'll be Goneril's other sister, the one who's still alive-Regan.

Regan's a lot like Cordelia was, Goneril remembers, only Regan is uglier and wittier and only third in line to the fortune, third best, can't afford to play games. She went to university, too, but Regan was smart enough to earn their father's blessing and receive a full scholarship to Académie Le Tour for Economics, not that the Capps needed any financial aid, oh, no, not with the empire that Consort had built, and she graduated summa cum laude and Consort hired her fresh out of college as a vice president, and Goneril should have known that Consort would love Regan better one day, only everything had seemed a lot more muddled before the deaths and disappearances, Cordelia and Caliban and Contessa and Consort and Juliet. In retrospect, it shouldn't have seemed so muddled, should have been obvious at the time. Regan was the smart one-maybe not as smart as Kent, but Consort didn't love him a bit, Kent didn't count-so when Regan spoke up on the job, the comments she made weren't stupid like Cordelia's but dangerous, noble and charitable and directly opposed to Consort's mission statement of greed.

Before today, Goneril believed that Consort resented Regan for it, but it seems he didn't resent her at all. Was it a game to him, the banter back and forth at all those board meetings? Goneril always thought Regan was foolish to fight back, but apparently, she was wrong. Goneril always thought that Consort loved _her_ better, maybe not best but at least more than Regan, because she was practical and obedient and did what she was told-everyone thought that Consort loved her better, trusted her better. She was the interim CEO until they recovered Consort's will, wasn't she? But now they've found the will and learned that he wanted to give the company to Regan, at least until Hermia was old enough to take over.

Goneril thought that Consort had loved her, but it seems she was wrong to be so presumptuous. After all, Cordelia was always the heiress; Goneril was only the spare.

There's a river in Veronaville that splits it right down the middle, Montys to the east and Capps to the west. There's a good reason, or maybe it's a bad one, why Patrizio Monty packed up his family and moved his ranch east of the river years ago, but it's a reason people don't talk about anymore, like how they don't talk about the fire that killed Cordelia and Caliban, or the famine that killed Claudio and Olivia Monty, or whatever the hell it was that killed Hero Monty-Goneril doesn't think they'll ever know. There are a lot of things that people don't talk about in Veronaville, they just _know_ them-they just _know_ better than to think the Capps and the Montys will ever reconcile.

There's a river in Veronaville that splits the Capps and the Montys right down the middle, but sometimes, Goneril wonders whether the real rift is between the families or within them.

Miranda is her own boss, nobody's protege. She's a responsible enough kid; she makes some decisions that Goneril doesn't like, but she's doing well in a part-time position at the company, getting A's in school, planning to major in Literature at SSU as soon as she gets her high school diploma. With her accomplishments, though, come arrogance and a sense of entitlement, and she's long stopped listening to a word her parents tell her. Miranda is her own boss, and sometimes Goneril wonders if it's all her fault, if all those years of rejecting her children pushed Miranda to the breaking point.

"I'm going out with Mercutio Monty," Miranda told her one night, maybe a month or two ago, fixing her hair in the living room mirror as Goneril studies a game of chess against herself.

_Going out_-Goneril knew what that meant, didn't expect Miranda to come home that night. "Just as long as you break his heart in the end," she bargained, not really joking. Her daughter didn't answer, and Goneril took that to mean that she plans to follow the advice.

Miranda is nobody's protege, but sometimes Goneril wonders if she taught her daughter more than either of them realized.

This is life after Cordelia, life after Consort, life after Goneril had any shot at inheriting the family fortune. She has a big house and knows the password to the Capp bank account, but it isn't the Capp Manor; it isn't Juliet's life-Hermia's life, now. This is life after any hopes that the Capps would love her as much as she loved the Capps; now she's just a bitter, washed-up has-been with a name like _gonorrhea_ who's been mooching off her parents for too long, and it has to end here, before she gets old and crotchety and more miserable than she already is, if that's possible. She's trying something new; she's turning over a new leaf; she's letting it go. What else can she do?

Life doesn't stop for a missing niece and a surprising CEO appointment; life doesn't stop, but life can change. Goneril can _change_.

Goneril does the one thing she doesn't know how to do: she goes to Kent.

Kent is the last of her siblings, the boy, the baby of the family-only he's more of a black sheep than an adored only son. He did Physics at Le Tour and took a job after graduation as a government researcher, but he'd quit over political differences with his department and is living with Regan and her husband, Cornwall, these days, working entry-level at the local hospital as he searches for better work. He's never worked at the company a day in his life; his best friend is Bianca Monty (yes, _that_ Bianca, the one the Capps aren't supposed to get along with); rumor has it he's gay, too, but Goneril never bothered to ask. There are things you just don't talk about in the Capp family, and sexuality is one of them.

"So you've seen the fallacy in Consort's parenting," says Kent kindly. They're at Regan's place for coffee-Regan and Cornwall are working, and Goneril took a vacation day. She sure as hell needs one right about now. "I'm surprised it took until after he died for his party line to stop working. It's not too bad, you know, living on the outside of Consort's good graces-the best he has to offer is money, anyway, and he doesn't even know how to give _that_ out without divvying it up unevenly and making everybody feel unloved in the end."

"I guess that means I'm free from the tyranny, then," says Goneril dryly. She's not joking, necessarily-she isn't very good at telling jokes.

Either way, Kent laughs at this, setting two steaming mugs of cappuccino on the table. "How is life on the inside, anyway? How's Tybalt?"

Tybalt is Juliet and Hermia's older brother and the only one of the Capp grandchildren who's not on speaking terms with Kent. Consort lives on the most through Tybalt-perhaps through Tybalt alone, now that Goneril's going soft. "He's... you know how he is. He got his acceptance to Le Tour just last week; he says he's going to declare Economics as his major."

"No surprises there," Kent says genially.

"What about you? I trust Regan and Cornwall are well?"

"Cornwall's still an insufferable ass," says Kent-the pair of them never got along. Goneril isn't his biggest fan, either, and isn't even sure that he and Regan have ever been in love-but they seem to work well together as business partners, at least, and must be good enough friends that Regan thinks he's worth keeping around. Then again, who is Goneril to talk? Just look at her own marriage to Albany. "Regan's all right. She's been busy like you wouldn't believe at the company, adjusting to her new position. She says she's worried about how you're taking it; it was a shock, that Consort made her CEO over you..."

"I'm fine," Goneril says, because she will be. "Still no news of Juliet?"

Shaking his head, Kent replies, "Neither she nor Romeo," Romeo being the Monty heir.

It was all too suspicious, the heirs of both families vanishing on the same night. "Do you believe what they're saying these days about them-that they were dating and decided to run away together? It doesn't sound like Juliet, but..."

There's the slightest of pauses before Kent says, "I don't know. I get the feeling there's more truth to the rumors than you would expect... every time it comes up in conversation with me and the kids, it seems like they're trying a little too hard to deny it."

It's surprisingly nice, talking to Kent-a touch awkward, since it's been months since Goneril last showed him a shred of interest or affection, but nice. They've hit an uncomfortable patch in the conversation, sipping their coffee and not really talking, and because she's trying something new these days, she brings it up. "Kent, are you gay?"

"Yes," he says easily, either completely unfazed or doing a damn good job of masking his confusion. "How'd you guess?"

Goneril laughs-another first for her. "It was easy to figure out; bringing it up was the hard part."

"That does tend to happen a lot in our family," Kent agrees mildly. "But I don't buy into it. Listen, Goneril, if you ever need to talk, just call me, all right?"

"I just might take you up on that one day," says Goneril with a hesitant little smile. "Goodbye, Kent."

"I'll be seeing you," he says back at her, seeing her out.

She's trying something new; she's turning over a new leaf. She takes it slow, starts out with the little things-potty training Ariel, having Kent over for coffee, smiling at Bianca Monty when she passes her in the market (this family feud has been going on long enough). Goneril used to keep to herself, used to give strangers and Montys alike the cold shoulder, resent her husband and children, avoid keeping ties with the extended family, save for Tybalt and Regan. Not anymore.

Albany doesn't know what's gotten into her. He's a good father, Albany, maybe even a good man, but he doesn't love her, and she doesn't know anymore whether she loves him. "Kent told me you've been getting along better with Bianca Monty these days," he says over an early pancake breakfast one morning.

It seems they're always eating or parenting or trying to sleep when they talk these days, like their marriage has been reduced to cooking and cleaning and domestic routine. "We're not friends," she says tiredly-she's been tired a lot lately since Consort died. She thinks she's been tired her whole life. "But that's no reason not to be cordial around her, around any of the Montys, for that matter. We're not children squabbling on the playground, Albany."

"You shouldn't trust her," says Albany indifferently. "She's a Monty; you know what that means, you know what her father is like-"

"She isn't _Patrizio_, Albany," Goneril interrupts, setting down her fork. "And I'm not Consort. Just because they had their differences doesn't mean that we ought to keep the feud alive in generations to come."

"This just isn't like you," Albany maintains, frowning, discounting her reasoning.

Goneril retorts, "Times change. People change, Albany, people _die_-look at Cordelia and Caliban, look at Claudio and Olivia, look at Hero. The police may have written them off as accidental deaths, but everybody knows that they're nothing more than Consort and Patrizio's casualties. Look at Juliet and Romeo! God knows what the rest of their lives will be like, whether they're even still alive, and they're just _kids_, Albany, they're just fifteen-year-old _kids_, and it's all our faults!"

"Come now, Goneril-"

Snappy and bitter, she flounces out of the kitchen and into the bathroom to wash up before work. Maybe she's changed, but she's starting to think that she's had the wrong husband all along.

One night, they go out-Regan and Cornwall, Goneril and Albany. Kent comes over for the night to babysit with Miranda, and they get out of the house, double date, driving all the way to downtown SimCity for the night.

Regan and Cornwall may not be in love, but Regan and Cornwall are happy-have settled into a routine of respect and companionship that seems to make each other just enough for a satisfying marriage. Regan and Cornwall are happy; Goneril and Albany are not.

She comes home and crawls into bed with the husband she doesn't want and tells him she'd like to get a divorce.

She's trying something new.

The custody battle is the easy part. Albany's cooking dinner one room over the next night, and Goneril's practicing the presentation she's giving to the board tomorrow, and he calls through the doorway as she's pausing for breath, "I want to keep the kids."

She's a little taken aback that he's bringing it up to her like this, but then, this is their marriage, isn't it? They don't fight outright; their fundamental problems are buried deep under diaper changes and homework help and spaghetti dinners. "Miranda stays with me," says Goneril simply, watching him in the corner of the mirror she's using to prepare. Shrugging, Albany stirs the pot and seems to accept it.

Money is harder to settle: Goneril made and still makes it, but if Albany will be the caretaker of two children and a toddler to Goneril's one nearly-grown teen, he's the one in need. Goneril's not happy with the final arrangement, leaving Albany the house and paying half of his kids' expenses, but grudgingly agrees that it's fair.

Money is the hard part, but the custody battle is easy. Though she doesn't like to admit it, Goneril loves all her children-but if Albany's demanding all of them and she only thinks she can afford to ask for one, it's Miranda. At the very least, if Goneril is that awful of a mother, it'll only be a couple more years before Miranda can live on her own-beyond that, though, it's Miranda who's suffered the most from Goneril's poor parenting, and if she's serious about this whole turning over a new leaf business, she probably ought to make amends with the daughter who ought to resent her.

When she breaks the news to Miranda, as expected, she's none too pleased. "I'm not living with you," Miranda says, matter of fact-she's lounging on her bed reading a romance novel, probably something slutty enough that Goneril should be glad she doesn't know what it is. "You can't force me to do it. I've already talked to Uncle Kent about it, and he says he's saved up enough from his job at the hospital to move out of Aunt Regan's house and get a place with me. I can use my savings from the company to pay rent."

Because she hadn't realized that Miranda knew about the divorce yet, let alone was already making alternate living arrangements, it takes Goneril a minute for this to sink in. Before Consort died, Goneril wouldn't have given her a choice, would have gotten a court order or _something_ to ensure Miranda would stay-but then, before Consort died, Goneril never dreamed of filing for divorce in the first place.

Baby steps. A lot has changed since then.

"Miranda," she says patiently, hovering in the doorway. "Albany wants full custody of your siblings, and I agreed to it under the condition that you lived with me."

"Then I guess you're going to have to pick somebody else to inflict your single motherhood upon because I'm not going to be the one to deal with it."

Goneril sighs. "It isn't like that. I... I've always been a lot better at my job than I was at being a mother. Your siblings are still young, and Albany is a good father; if he raises them-"

"Oh, so you think I'm a screw-up and I'm the only one you can live with and not do any more damage to, is that it?" says Miranda, still perfectly calm and composed. She gets that from Goneril-she _learned_ that from Goneril.

"Miranda, I love you," Goneril says. For the first time since Goneril knocked on her door, Miranda looks up from her novel, eyes wide, composure broken. Goneril doesn't tell her children she loves them, she just _doesn't_, until now. "I love you, and I... I've taught you a lot of the wrong things, and I just hoped that it wouldn't be too late for you to give me a chance to change that."

For a moment, Miranda just _stares_ at her, stares and stares and doesn't speak and doesn't blink. Then her eyes steel over, and she answers, "Give it up, Mom, it's not going to happen. Better luck with the next kid you ask."

Goneril doesn't know what to say. Groping at straws, she opens her mouth and surprises herself with what comes out: "Miranda, if you really like Mercutio Monty, be good to him."

She's walking out the door and almost misses Miranda's near-inaudible answer. "Too late for that."

Goneril was wrong-that does seem to be the pattern these days, doesn't it? She was wrong: money is the easy part, and the custody battle is unbearable.

Humiliated, she goes to Albany and asks for Ariel instead. He's reluctant to give her up, but he's a good father and maybe even a good man, and he accepts that it wouldn't be a disaster for a mother to be an influence in the life of her baby girl.

The night before she goes, Albany's babysitting, teaching Ariel to walk in the living room. Goneril gets situated on the couch and flips open a copy of _Business Weekly_ and peers out at them every now and then from above her magazine, just watching, just _hoping_ she can love Ariel as much as Albany already does.

She'll get it right this time, for Ariel and for Miranda.

Goneril makes three phone calls the next day, Ariel on her hip and the weight lifting itself off her chest with every number she dials. Her new house is small-modest, even-and much as it pains her to downsize, she thinks that this will be good for her, for _them_.

She places the first call to Bianca Monty, who picks up on the second ring. "Bianca, I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry for everything."

Bianca's not satisfied, but she'll come around-at least, Goneril hopes she will. She came around for Kent, didn't she?

Next on the list is Regan, who doesn't answer. She leaves her resignation from the company on voicemail, knowing Regan will call her back sooner or later to protest, knowing it won't seem to make sense-but Goneril's had a lifetime of looking for fulfillment in all the wrong places, and she's done. She thinks she'll try politics. She's always liked politics, and working for a corrupt family business is all the experience and preparation she'll need.

The last call she makes, and the hardest, is to the Capp Manor. Hermia answers; she asks to speak to Tybalt. He's just like Consort used to be, Tybalt, picking fights with Mercutio Monty and spending every waking minute thinking about the company, the family fortune. But it's never going to be Tybalt's, hard as he tries not to mind. Goneril's been there. He says a lot of things, and she says a lot of things, but all it really boils down to are her parting words to him before she hangs up the phone: "Tybalt, promise me that you'll never do another thing in your life to honor the memories of Consort and Cordelia Capp."

He doesn't promise. She's not sure why she even tried.

There's a river in Veronaville that splits it right down the middle, and nobody can really remember why they're so afraid to cross it.

From now on, Goneril's going to do her part to make that river a little narrower.


	2. NickyFox13

Author: NickyFox13

Fandom: The 10th Kingdom

Claim: Virginia Lewis

**A/N: **Written for the Reviews Lounge, Too 'Outside the Box' challenge. This takes place pre-miniseries, and might be slightly AU/OOC. OCs will be (briefly) mentioned in this fic as well.

Virginia's life was quiet. She lived with her father in an apartment Virginia helped pay for with the money she made at her waitressing job. The waitressing job wasn't her first choice of jobs but the hours were flexible and the money was decent. Virginia considered herself lucky that never really ran into a bad customer while waitressing so her job wasn't as bad as most people thought it would be.

The only doubts about her job, when Virginia sat down and thought about it, was from her grandmother, who would always say something like: "Oh Virginia, darling, you're still young! Why don't you do something fun once in a while?", which always seemed to mean 'go do something better with your life than being a waitress, after all you have a college degree!" But she got to bike home while taking in the sights of the woods by her house, which was an especially beautiful sight in the spring when the flowers bloomed in an explosion of different colors.

She was proud to say she had a vibrant social life as well, and Virginia always bragged about her friends when she visited Grandmother. Even if she didn't party all night or drink or do drugs at said parties with friends (or with anyone, for that matter), she was glad she had a few friends that she really liked and trusted with anything

It was a routine of hers to work in the day and to come home to her father in the night. Sometimes the time between work and home was broken up by the chattering voices of her friends. And sometimes, the quiet of Virginia's life wasn't enough. There was a part of her that wanted something more to her life than work and occasional socializing and home, although she was completely unaware of how to deal with it.

"Hey, Dad!" Virginia greeted her father, who was relaxing on their aging couch after a long day's work, when she entered her apartment room. "Hey," Tony echoed, staring at the television intently.

"I'm bored," Virginia whined, taking a seat on the couch.

"Do something about that," Tony replied, still intently glued to the television.

"But what?"

"Be creative, get outside and do something you've never done before."

Her father's words echoed in her ears for the rest of the next day, and it bothered her somewhat.

"Excuse me, waitress, you haven't taken our order yet!" A customer, a young man with dark hair, said with the slightest hint of impatience. His voice awoke her from her trance.

"I'm sorry, sir. What would you like to order?" She asked, faking cheeriness. As the young man ordered for both himself and the girl he was with (presumably his girlfriend, a pretty woman who wore very little makeup). Virginia noticed that the girl looked utterly bored throughout the whole time they ate lunch. Virginia walked back into the restaurant, checking on the customers she had to serve on the way. One pair, a man with golden brown hair, seemed to be animatedly chatting with his friend, a second man with bright blue eyes. She stopped to stealthily eavesdrop, a hard thing to do when you were a waitress in a somewhat busy restaurant.

"….just one more player and we'd have a team!" The blue eyed man exclaimed.

"A team for what?" She blurted out, forgetting that she was an eavesdropper and not actually a part of the conversation. The blue eyed man stared at her steadily.

"Baseball!" The brunette explained.

"But you don't seem like the sporty type, miss waitress," blue-eyes said.

"I do play sports," Virginia explained, the tiniest bit defensive. She told a half-truth about playing sports, since she played soccer and baseball when she was in middle school and a bit in high school. She has since forgotten why she stopped playing sports.

"I'm Andrew, by the way, and this is my friend Daniel," the brunette said, "and I'd like to know if you want to join in our baseball practice at the batting cages tomorrow."

"Andrew, what in god's name is wrong with you? Why would you ask a random waitress to practice with us?" hissed Daniel.

"She's been working at the restaurant for years and I've been eating here just as long as she's been working here. She's like family!" Andrew said.

"….Do you know her name?" Daniel questioned flatly.

"Yeah, she's Virginia," Andrew said confidently. Virginia was impressed that he knew her name, since he was someone whose table she never served. Daniel sighed.

"Tomorrow at five fifteen is our practice. Let me write down the address for you."

She drives idly around the parking lot where the batting cages were located. Luckily, Virginia knew exactly where she was going since the batting cages were next door to the arcade she went to as a child. She parked her bike which wasn't an easy feat by any means. It took her nearly ten minutes to realize that the parking lot, where cars normally parked, wouldn't accommodate her bike. Virginia was forced to lock her bike up to the nearest bike rack, which was a bit of a ways away from the parking lot.

She waited patiently at the entrance of the batting cages, completely unsure what to expect. Five, ten, fifteen minutes ticked by quicker than Virginia expected. She completely dismissed waiting any longer and waltzed into the entrance. (It wasn't until later that she realized that she went to the wrong indoor batting cage.) Virginia admitted that batting cages, especially an indoor one like this one, were slightly creepy. There were about twenty or so cages within her sight; there was more netting and chain link fences than she had ever seen in her life. It took her almost thirty five minutes to wait for the person ahead of her to get out of the batting cage that she wanted, get all of her materials ready (a bat, and safety gear) and actually start at a slow pace. Truthfully, balls being pitched at her from a machine that could go up to ninety miles an hour freaked her out just a bit but the experience was totally worth it.

**A/N:** My knowledge of batting cages are minimal but I hope that doesn't detract from the story. The title of this story comes from the Death Cab for Cutie song of the same name and I don't own it. The title kind of has nothing to do with the story itself but at least it sounds pretty.


	3. StoryGirl02: Home

**Home**

Author: StoryGirl02

Fandom: Peter Pan

Claim: Wendy Darling**  
**

Her hair was longer.

Hanging in a ratted mess because the only comb they'd had broken months ago- _and_ _really combing her fingers through it hurt_- it desperately needed a cut, though she was too scared to take the jaggered knife to it herself, and she didn't trust Peter or any of the Lost Boys to cut it. After all, that knife was used on their meats and the like, and the last time she had watched Peter cut the meat with it, he had ruined it so much that she had to turn the scraps that had survived into a stew. She could definitely not trust them with her hair, the crown and glory of her overall beauty.

Surprisingly, for all the months_-possibly years she didn't know- her calender had been ruined during a storm and she had never recovered from the loss of it-_ she had never once had to trim any of the boys' hair. It seemed that as if their hair just stopped growing once they had stepped foot onto Neverland, and for that she was glad. She had never once watched anyone trim someone's hair, nevertheless cut hair herself. It was just one of those things that made her miss London and her family's personal barber that much more.

She peered down at her nails in the dim light, pursing her lips at the dirt hidden underneath the cracked, shorts ends. They looked horrible, and were in desperate need of a trim. The only thing she could do was break them off when they got a bit too long for her comfort and practicality, and wash them reguarly. Her dress was in a worse of state though, Peter had managed to borrow a dress of Tiger Lilly but she hardly ever wore it, finding that she prefered the ratty nightgown to the flimsy dress that showed a bit too much skin for it to be considered a lady's attire.

The dresses, nail care and regular haircuts were hardly the top of the list of things she missed about London.

She missed Nana.

She missed her bed, her layer upon layer of thick warm blankets and tons of soft, fluffy pillows.

She missed her friends.

She missed everything, even the snow that chilled her bones right down to the core.

She missed John and Michael so so much, missed them so much it hurt deep inside. And even though she had all the Lost Boys to keep her company, and Peter of course, nothing could ever replace her brother, no one could ever be as supportive as John or as charming as Michael. No one could ever replace the hole in her heart she had gained from leaving her family to start a new life in Neverland. It had been her choice after all, to live her and try and forget about her dear London and family, but that didn't mean she missed it any less. Peter tried though, he found old pictures of Big Ben and other landmarks that had been brought with the Lost Boys when they came to Neverland, and she tacked them up around in her room, staring wonderlessly at the tattered photographs and postcards until they all faded into one.

_She missed her mother. _

Oh god how she missed her mother! There were so many nights when she stared silently at the strange family she had made, and tried to think how her mother would react upon seeing what exactly her daughter had acomplished without any sort of help. It was getting harder and harder to remember her mother's mannerishims, and how she acted towards her children. She had forgotten how she had looked almost immediately, but there was still a fuzzy picture she had formed in her mind; a kind and gentle woman with long bron hair and sparkling blue eyes. The nights when her mother had tucked them in and watched them fall asleep, one by one, as she leant against the doorway, seemed so long ago, almost as if they were from one of the fairytale book she herself spent her nights reading to the Lost Boys.

She missed her father.

Her father who could just hold her tight and promise that it would all be okay, seemed so far away. Her father, tough but caring, with his glasses and thinning brown hair, seemed like a distant memory she had formed out of need and not because it was true. She wished that Peter had exist in the normal world, in her regular world of London, so she wouldn't have had to make the choice between London, her family and him.

Maybe her father and him would have met, maybe they both would have grown older, maybe they would have married one day and had children of their own?

But no, they were stuck in this everlasting world where no one grew up. Peter would never grow any taller, she would never discover who exactly she should have married, she would never have children. And even though all of this was weighing down on her mind, making her think that maybe she had made the wrong choice afater all, she couldn't imagine leaving Neverland behind, not knowing what exactly her tribe of Lost Boys were eating that night, and whether Peter needed medical care for his scratches or not.

She had formed a life here in Neverland, and she could never imagine leaving it. Even though London and her family were always there at the back of her mind, tempting her to return and never come back, she knew she couldn't. Peter would be crushed, and she could never do anything that would intentionally hurt her golden-haired Peter. Even though she would never grow up and experience her debut, never see her brothers marry, never see her mother and father again, she could never leave.

Even though this wasn't quite the family she expected from her childhood dreams, it was still a family, and she could never leave her family behind.

A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up, startled. The pile of tattered, dirty photographs flittered to the bed-cover beside her as she smiled softly at Peter.

"Coming?" he questioned, leaning against the door lazily. He ran a hand through his sun-streaked hair slowly.

She shook her head softly with a sharp laugh, standing up and brushing the small particles of dirt of her constantly-dirt dress, before mimicking Peter and running a hand through her hair in an useless attempt to clean up her appearance. "Of course," she repiled, grinning softly at him. He stared softly at her, making her feel unnerved and cautious. Even though she had lived with Peter for a period of who knows how long, he still did make her nervous sometimes.

"What?" she asked, pursing her lips softly as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

He shook his head as if clearing his thoughts, grinning at her. "You, Wendy Darling, are beautiful. A vision, honestly."

She hit him lightly on the chest with a soft giggle. "You are such a charmer, Peter Pan."

He shrugged, looping her arm through his and walking her into the crowded kitchen. The Lost Boys greeted her arrival with a chorus of cheers, making her smile. She stared softly at Peter, grinning back at him.

_Yes, this was home. _


	4. eSJa: Shaken

**Shaken**

Author: eSJa

Fandom: Supernatural

Claim: Dean

Dean wasn't an outside of the box kind of guy. Sure, the people who met him and learned what he and Sam did wouldn't see it that way, but once you really got to know him – though few people ever had - you'd realize how enclosed he was by his own boundaries.

Occasionally, he would hit upon something unusual that would destroy whatever monster they were fighting, but more times than not, it was luck or an intuitive leap rather than the analysis and theorizing of a new idea.

When he was forced to go outside the rules and laws he lived by, he felt a twisting in his gut; not the twist that said his life was seconds from being over - he was used to **that** particular twist - but the twist that told him he was in over his head and to get into the Impala, crank up the tunes and floor it to the next state.

Ever since Cass had hauled his ass out of Hell**,** that twist was part of him**,** and he hated it. He wanted to go back to cold beers, a hot burger and an even hotter waitress to hit on. _Good luck with that._

Sam was passed out next to him, curled up into the door; the yellow traffic lines blurred into a bright streak against the pavement as the tires hummed their steady familiar tune. They had a tip from Bobby about a couple of killings in Oregon that sounded suspicious. Nothing indicated it would be Heaven related, but then again, unless it was Cass who tipped them off, it rarely did.

He hoped this job was simple, an old-school monster-of- the-week bump in the dark thing they could kill and not have to worry if it was one more scheme that Zachariah cooked up. _ Damn you__**,**__ Cass__**;**__ I hate all this thinking__**- **__ that's Sam's job._

"Where are we?"

"Somewhere in Colorado, I think."

"Need me to take the wheel for a bit?" Sam asked**,** unfolding his long frame into a upright position.

Dean tossed him a glance, "I'm good."

They sat in silence, lost in their thoughts.

"Why do you think it's us? Sam asked.

Dean raised an eyebrow, "Vague much?"

"Us**,** Dean **-** Lucifer and Michael. Why are we their vessels and not two other brothers who don't know anything about all of this?" Sam replied tersely.

"I don't know **-** because angels are vain and they think we look good?" Dean said**,** squinting his eyes against a passing car's headlights.

Sam sighed, "Come on**,** Dean, we've got a long way to go**,** andthis is the first time we've had five minutes to talk without having to stab something or draw some messed up symbol in blood."

"Fine**,** Sammy, you want to talk, talk; but I ain't one to spill my guts like a sad little girl on Oprah."

"So this is funny to you?" Sam asked. "Heaven and Hell decide to ride our asses**,** and it**'s** a joke**?** Jesus**,** Dean**,** you're not some one-dimensional character on a knock-off tv show; I know this is messing with your head."

Dean gritted his teeth. "So what if it is**? **Big deal. We've dealt with crap like this before and lived**;** I don't get why you're so damned set on making this different."

"Because it is different, you ass!" Sam said loudly. "It's not a shapeshifter or a wendingo or a crossroad demon! It's the Apocalypse, and we're supposed to _kill_ each other. Why is it so hard for you to get?"

"I do get it. I get we're gonna die. I get Bobby's gonna die and probably a whole lota other good people because we can't do shit about it. God's not answering his phone, angels want to kill, maim or bludgeon us and demons want to pack us off to their boss, and you want me to talk about it?" Dean exploded. "Fine, I'll talk about it."

He shot a hard look at his brother, the sliver of moon in the sky throwing pale light across Sam's gaunt features. "I'm scared out of my mind; Cass ain't got the mojo he used to, Bobby's a cripple because of us and Lucifer wants to ride you're skinny ass into eternity. We have no idea how to stop it**,** and everything we do find says you're gonna die and I'm headed for God's road side used veggie stand. So yeah**,** Sammy, I do get it."

Pensive silence filled the car as the miles rolled by, both too stubborn to budge.

The first thing Dean noticed was how soft the sheets were **-** far softer than the usual motel hundred thread crap they had to put up with. _Must be under new management._

He sighed heavily and cracked his eyes open as he swung his legs out and sat on the edge of the bed. _Sammy musta been exhausted__**. **__I don't hear him snoring._

He was about to stand when a warm, soft hand settled gently on his bare back. "Dean?"

His muscles tensed and uncoiled in seconds as he leapt off the bed and groped for his Glock on the nightstand**;** not finding it**,** he whipped around and cocked back his fist**,** ready to wallop whoever had touched him.

"Dean! It's me, Lisa! Baby**,** it's ok." A voice called from the darkness.

"Lisa?"

"Yes**,** baby, Lisa**.** It's ok**,**" She said sheets rustling as she moved to turn on the bedside lamp.

With a snap, soft light bathed the room, still bright enough to cause Dean to squint against it. Forcing his eyes open, a fuzzy blur took shape, transforming into the dark haired woman in bed with a concerned look on her face. "Bad dream again?"

The levers and gears clicked into place**,** and Dean remembered where he was and why. "Something like that, sorry."

"It's ok Dean **- **I'd be more worried if you didn't have any bad dreams. Do you want to talk about it?" **s**he asked**,** pulling her knees to her chest under the covers.

The adrenaline rush subsiding, Dean sat back down. "No – it wasn't a bad dream, not like the others."

Lisa hesitantly placed her hand on his back again, the flinch this time more of a shiver that ran up his spine. It would be a long time before he would be used to it. "Sam wanted me to talk**,** too. He hated that I wouldn't tell him what I was feeling," he explained with a bitter chuckle. 'Hell**, **even now it's about as easy as letting you drive my car."

She nodded and watched the muscles in his back ripple as he fought with his singular nature. "It's been almost a year since – he left and I still feel guilt, like I kicked a sick puppy**,**" he said**,** voice horse. "I'm not the one who was supposed to be normal and have the family and house, nor the bed to sleep in with the same woman every night.

"Shit, that didn't come out right**,**" Dean said**,** turning around, prepared to explain what he meant.

Lisa met his worried gaze with a sly grin. "You told me how you lived; I'm not holding it against you**,** Dean **- **as long as they don't show up on our doorstep**,** they don't matter."

Relief spread across his face as well as a small grin. "Don't think that's gonna be an issue**.** I'm pretty sure you're the only one who knows me for real."

"Good, that's the way I like it," she said grinning.

"-Me too," he replied, feeling his body begin to relax.

"You think you can get back to sleep?" She asked.

"I don't know, butI guess I should try though**,**" he said**,** sliding into the bed.

Lisa stretched to turn off the light**,** and in the deep dark**,** wrapped her arm around Dean's chest, her small body warming his.

Soon her breathing evened out, becoming deep and steady; it had taken him a while to get used to it**,** but now he was starting to have problems sleeping if she wasn't there.

_Sam, I'm sorry__**;**__ this should be you. This will never be me._


	5. xoxcrescentmoonxox

Author: xoxcrescentmoonxox

Fandom: Secret Life of the American Teenager

Claim: Adrian

"God, I'm stiff," moaned Adrian, arching her back and trying to find a more comfortable position on the Boykewich's couch.

"It's not going to get easier," said Ben wryly beside her.

Rounding on him, Adrian snapped, "I didn't ask for your input!" It was just one of those days. Her baby bump looked offendingly huge in whatever shirt she put on, her back hurt, her ankles were nearly as swollen as her stomach, and the sixteen year old father of her child was helping matters not at all.

Now, however, Ben looked slightly wounded as he put his arms in the air and muttered, "Okay, okay. But I thought that as one half of this … parental unit, I was guaranteed some say anyway."

Adrian instantly felt guilty. Moments like this occurred all too frequently, with Adrian cutting into Ben for an insignificant, passing remark. She probably hurt him like that because no matter how many times she dominated him, he would always come back; because they were bound together, a weird extension of family. After Amy Jeurgens' precedent last year, two high school students having a baby had to stick with one another. Ben was more aware of that than anyone else, including Adrian.

"I just don't think you understand," she finally muttered, pursing her lips that felt rough and naked with none of their usual coating of gloss. "After all, when it comes down to it, Ben, _we're_ not pregnant. _I_ am pregnant. You made this happen."

"Oh," grinned Ben, "And you protested the whole time that this was happening." His gaze lingered on her stomach, and unlike when Ricky or any of the guys at school stared, Ben made Adrian feel sexy.

Finally, blushing, she reached up with her left hand (the one adorned with the ring he'd given her, a promise of something that neither could define) and cupped his cheek in her palm, bringing his eyes to her own. "My face is up here," she teased.

It was Ben's turn to go red. He bit his lip and leaned ever so slightly into Adrian's touch. A shiver ran down her spine. She could still make men fall for her.

"You—" Ben began, then stopped, clamping his mouth shut.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"_Wha_-at?" She ran a finger down his jawbone.

"Well, you're a lot more fun when you're pregnant than Amy."

"Oh."

Adrian let her hand fall to her lap. She concealed the ring under her other arm, locking away her and Ben's relationship for what had been his and Amy's. It was a wound as unhealed for Ben as Ricky was for her.

"I really feel like a _jerk_ for saying that," Ben continued, staring straight ahead, "But I look at you, I talk to you, and it's true. You don't really complain, and even when you do, that's not the whole conversation. Like now, I know you said you feel miserable, but you're still—you're still—you know, you're still being Adrian. You're not demanding anything from me, and you don't think that the world owes you something for making you suffer."

Adrian breathed in and out slowly, searching for words. Amy was always an awkward topic. Not only was Adrian going through what Amy had gone through last year, but Ben had dated Amy throughout her pregnancy, even though Ricky, Adrian's ex boyfriend, lover, you name it, was the father.

"Man, I'm a tool."

Hearing Ben utter such comically untrue words, she couldn't quite hold back a little snort.

"What?" he cried. "Do you find this funny?"

She pressed her hand to her mouth; the warm metal of his ring brushed against her lips. "Only because if _you're_ a tool, Ben, what does that make _me_?"

He snuck a glance at her. A smile played across his lips. "I plead the Fifth."

"Who gave you the right to remain silent?"

Ben meaningfully pressed his lips inward.

"Well, two can play at this game," she smirked. Again, she adjusted on the couch, this time lying on her side and trying to ease out the kinks in her back.

"You still ache?" Ben asked after a few minutes.

After hearing about Amy complaining about her pregnancy, Adrian wasn't sure how she was supposed to reply. She certainly didn't want to become like Amy. But then, if there was one thing she'd learned in the past year, it was that lying really didn't pay off, even at seemingly insignificant times.

"Yes," she finally admitted in a small voice.

A couple seconds later, Ben's fingers began to knead the small of her back, right where it hurt from not being able to bend forward anymore.

"Mm," she murmured, "Thank you." She closed her eyes and snuggled into the couch pillow. "How did you know to do that?"

"Amy," he replied, curt. "She used to like it when I did this … it was about the only way she liked me to touch her, a lot of the time."

"Oh." Adrian felt her muscles tensing again.

"Relax," said Ben. "Just let me take care of you."

_Just let me take care of you_. How many times Adrian had dreamed of Ricky Underwood saying that to her. Before Ricky, of any of her various sexual partners promising such intimate commitment. And yet it was Ben Boykewich, son of the Sausage King, somehow the father of her baby, who uttered those beautiful words.

They wouldn't fall in love right then; they wouldn't succumb to the mad throes of passion; they wouldn't become something more than good friends knotted together by a sort-of mistake. But Adrian squeezed her eyes shut, trying to bottle up his words and express to him a fragment of what she was feeling, why he had uncannily made her feel fuller than she had in her life.

"Okay," was all she said, once several seconds had elapsed. It was soft, a submission. She would allow someone else to take care of her. It was okay.

Again, several seconds elapsed. Ben's hands twisted across her back as Adrian allowed her eyelids to droop.

When he spoke, his voice was soft and unsure. "I love you, Adrian," he said, trying out the words. "I think."

Adrian bit her lip and sat up halfway, suddenly unsure of were the conversation was going. _Let me take care of you_ was one thing she didn't know how to reply to; _I love you_ was another. But this was Ben. This boy would accept whatever she said, because this boy accepted people as they were; accepted Adrian as she was. And so for the second time that night, she told the truth.

"I don't know if I love you, Ben …" Adrian grinned at him, twisting her ring, his promise, once around her finger. "But I like you."

His hand fluttered down to clasp her wrist, gently possessive. Her skin tingled at his touch, and she added quietly, "I like you a lot."


	6. SiriuslyPeeved: Remembrance

**Remembrance**

Author: SiriuslyPeeved

Fandom: Battlestar Galactica: 2003

Claim: Six

**Author's Note:** This drabble is based on the BSG miniseries and on the final episode, "Daybreak: Part 3. " May be a slight AU, as I did not have the opportunity to watch the miniseries again before completing the story.

Gleaming with dark blood, the blade dropped from her hand and clattered into the dust. Killing was nothing new to Caprica Six. The number of lives she had ended numbered into the billions. A creature she herself had raised, had drawn bleating from its mother's trembling haunches: this was a first. Six felt her breathing grow ragged, and a flush of nausea ran up from her abdomen. Sweat dripped from her forehead.

"Six?" Gaius stepped forward. "Are you ready?"

Once, Gaius Baltar was given to her for slaughter as surely as the lamb: her would-be victim, and then the heart she lost, shaped as she was herself by forces she did not understand. Six looked hopelessly over her shoulder, and Gaius's expression softened. "Are you all right?"

"It was a few weeks before the attack on the Colonies." Gaius knelt beside her in the dusty paddock and covered her hand with his, silently encouraging her to speak. "Before I came to you that day, I walked in the city." Six stared into the distance, across their tidy farmstead and into the stony mountains, but she saw only the bustling river walk, crowded with shoppers. The wounded planet's name was affixed to hers for the convenience of the Fleet, since they could not tell her apart from her sisters: a constant reminder of her sins. "Gaius, I killed a child on Caprica."

Gaius's hand tightened on hers, and the kind lines around his eyes strained at the corners. "What?"

"I reached into a carriage. It broke so easily. I thought to spare it from fear and pain, but its mother… Oh, God, Gaius, its mother. She might have been evacuated. She might have made it to Galactica. She might be with us somewhere."

Gaius opened his arms. Six buried her dirty face against Gaius's shoulder. He smelled of sweat and chickens. "All these years," he said quietly, "You've worried about her, haven't you?"

Six pulled back and wiped her eyes, sitting back on her haunches in the dirt. Blood on her hands mixed with tears and grime. "Not always, Gaius. Not until I truly understood…"

"That human and Cylon are one?" Gaius asked gently. He helped Six to her feet, and her swollen abdomen made a tent of the rough coverall.

Six rested one hand on the child and smiled at him through her tears. A hard lump moved smoothly under her palm, recognizing its mother's touch. A harder jolt signaled the child's kick.

"Do you want to try to find her?" Six nodded, unable to speak.

"Caprica Baltar?" A woman's voice called. She stood near the house, holding two large burlap sacks. "I'm here for the lamb."

"We'll have it ready in just a moment. I'm sorry." Gaius squeezed Six's hand and gathered the lamb gently from the ground, carrying it into the shed.

After the farm chores were done, and their hands and clothing cleaned, it was early evening. The chickens made contented sounds as they settled for the night. Later, Gaius would light torches to ward against wild animals.

"Caprica Baltar," Gaius chuckled and ran a work-hardened palm across her forehead. Six closed her eyes with pleasure. "Somehow, I never quite liked the sound of that name. You're Six to me, always."

"You never even bothered to find out what my real name was supposed to be," she said slyly, one finger tracing the length of his thigh.

Gaius laughed and caught her hand, bringing it to his lips. "I'm sorry, darling."

"That's all right. I've forgotten it myself."


	7. Shuna: Not for the Dough

**Not for the Dough**

Author: Shuna

Fandom: Hellboy II: The Golden Army

Claim: Prince Nuada Silverlance

One day the burden of the kingdom would no longer be on his fathers shoulders. No, he would lead his people, defend them. He would never do any mistakes, and thus he studied relentlessly. No one was to see his first tries. He watched carefully, read pages and wrote until he could do everything without even looking.

Nuala understood, not that it was hard when they were connected. She did not share his fear in failure, but did her best to raise her skills to perfection, learned with him as he did with her.

But there was one thing she could not help him with, much to her despair. He taught her how to wield a spear, a sword, everything which she received no teachings about and more. Separated by thick walls, only she shuddered with him as his fingers made contact with gray paste. None had seen this before, not in this state.

He wasn't able to learn.

Neither was she.


	8. bookwormofmassiveproportions

**my heart will carry me back and away**

Author: bookwormofmassiveproportions

Fandom: Tigana

Claim: Alessan

**Author's Note:** Okay this fic is for the novel Tigana, which I have never written before (eep!) The character is Alessan, and this is him as a child, which is unusual as throughout the novel he's an adult. Cheers!

Alessan wasn't waiting when the summons came, nor was he practicing fiercely in his room. He might have been, but he could not go, and so he was staring down from the window tallying up the troops, quietly realizing that they were _too few too few too few_ to the rhythm of the march, when Emile called him to bid his father goodbye.

He was silent, walking through the light corridors and high vaulted halls of the Palace, feeling a dull weight in his chest meeting the dull sound of his sword thumping against his leg. Brandin of Ygrath had lost his son, he thought distantly, and now he was to lose his father.

Who entered the throne room shortly after Alessan, with Corsin and Loredan behind him. His mother was already there, staring out the window, perhaps at the same task as he had been. She must have sent the message for him. Loredan looked firm, and shone silver in his armour. He looked nearly as calm as his mother. Corsin was nearly as impressive, but his armour was older, less-used. He had his lips pursed as tightly as his elder brother, but Alessan, who knew him best, saw how pale he was. They both looked to the courtyard where the army waited.

His father had the fierce wrinkle between his eyes which spoke clearly of his unfamiliar grimness, a look Alessan associated with piles of paperwork and hearings. Only with war, though, today. Long ago, when he was much younger, Alessan remembered, he would try to mimic that face back at his father, invariably making him laugh. It was his one trick, and he was too old for it now.

"Ah." His father said, finally noticing his third son. He smiled briefly. "I see you've been keeping busy." He said, gesturing to the sword at his side.

"Yes." Alessan said, glancing down at it.

"Valentin." His mother said, half-greeting, half-prompting her husband. Her eyes, as always, were stony and unreadable.

His father nodded, brow furrowed again, "You'll be pleased to know, both of you, we're sending you to Quileia. The traders' caravan is here, they're leaving shortly, are you ready?" It was hurried, but his father had more important business than their evacuation.

"Yes." Alessan's mother said. A lie. Later that night, only Alessan would be hurried onto the first wagon, watching his mothers' proud figure fade into the distance. Only Alessan.

His father nodded again, sharply, "Very well, then. Be prepared, be fast, and Pasithea," he looked up at her, "Please don't hold them back. You know you must leave."

Alessan nearly felt his mother, in all her injured pride across the room, stiffen further. "I am Princess of Tigana." She said, "No more and no less."

His father frowned, and would have, Alessan knew, sought a firmer promise, had not the trumpets blared at that very moment. He looked up sharply, the light throwing his face into a relief sculpture. The three of them proceeded to the door. As they walked by him, his father's face softened and he smiled again for his third son. Another father might have hugged him, laid a hand on his shoulder, sought to give him comfort as he left. But his father was Prince of Tigana, and his comfort was owed elsewhere.

And, so, it was Corsin, who had taught him how to shoot, with whom he fenced day in and day out, who rode with him and laughed with him, Corsin, only two years older than him, and old enough to go, who laid a hand on his shoulder and said "Alessan." before he was gone.


	9. StoryGirl02: Waiting

**Wishing**

Author: StoryGirl02

Fandom: Glee

Claim: Quinn Fabray

These last few weeks had been ones that she really didn't want to ever remember. Filled with waiting around for something she desperately needed to happen, and wondering what exactly was going to happen with her.

Her period had been due four weeks ago, which made it nearly a month since the 'thing' happened, the thing she was sure never to ever repeat again. She had marked it clearly in her little diary, because Quinn Fabray was a girl who consisted of schedules. Nothing in her life was ever not planned, well except for that 'thing'. She knew what exactly was going to happen in her future, which is why this waiting around scared her dreadfully. Her period had always come when she had predicted it, and it was never ever late.

_Until now. _

She had been stupid to do it she knew, throw her virginity away like it was nothing. She had completely dumb to do it with him, though, instead of waiting until someone came around that loved her for her, and not the sex. Hell, even Finn's misguided fumbling should had been enough for her, but no.

She had acted like some dumb floozy she had sworn never to become, drunk four wine coolers down like they were water and smiled at him when he took her arm and led her to the bedroom. She hadn't protested when he took her shirt off, made no cries for help when he kissed her softly on the lips.

Quinn shook her head softly, sighing.

She had so stupid to believe him. She had watched hundreds of girls disappear into a bedroom with him and never be seen on his arm ever again. Finn had often talked about his antics many times with her, while she just nodded happily along to his words in agreement. He was a player, and she was just another notch on his ever-increasing belt. Soon he'd need them specially made, she thought with a grin.

Stupid, stupid _stupid girl! _

If her period didn't arrive by the end of the day, she was skipping Cheerio's practice and going to the twenty-four supermarket to buy herself a pregnancy test.

**xxx**

She prayed hard in Celibacy Club, so hard that her knees were raw by the end of it; though her prayers weren't for a long and healthy relationship with Finn, she prayed desperately for her period to start. She could handle the embarrassment she would surely receive when it started, trapped in the school without any sort of pads or tampons, it wasn't as bad as staring in the cashier in the face and know exactly what he was thinking.

_'Here we go again. Another teenage pregnancy, god how did this girl go astray?'_

A tear trickled down her cheek and she hastily wiped it away before Finn or anyone could see.

_It wasn't her fault!_

**xxx**

"_Oi_, Fabray!"

She whirled around, motioning to Finn to meet her at her locker, forcing a smile. "Puckerman," she greeted coldly, placing a hand on her hip. "What exactly could you want with me?"

He smirked at her, shaking his head lightly. Shrugging he said, "You were crying in that stupid Celicby club, and I was just wondering if you were alright or not. Can't let Finn's girl be upset, can we?"

"I'm fine," she gritted out.

He smirked again. "Whatever then, see you 'round."

She shook her head, and walked back over to Finn. He stared after the retreating figure of Puck, his jacket swinging in the breeze, and then looked back down at her."What did Puck want?" he asked, taking her hand slowly.

She giggled up at him, smiling. "Nothing of importance."

**xxx**

Coach Sylvester let her off Cheerio's practice without any sort of explanation, yelling after her 'that she'd better be in good form for Wednesday practice or else'.

She hurried to the car park, hands shaking as she fumbled with her keys. God, this couldn't be happening to her. She was the golden child, the one her parents favoured above all else. What would happen to her if she told them she was pregnant? She'd be kicked out of home surely, but then what? Where would she live, would she become another homeless person that months ago she had pitied and tried to help?

She wiped her tears away, sniffling.

"Quinn," a voice said, and she shook her head softly.

Please, go away. She didn't need this, didn't need him being here with her crying on top of everything damn thing that was going wrong right now!

"Quinn," he repeated, placing a hand on her shoulder. "What the hell is up with you?"

She whirled around, a stray strand of blonde hair escaping from her tight ponytail. "What's wrong with me?" she gritted out, shaking her head. A finger prodded into his chest, and he rubbed it softly. "You, you Jewish ignorant bastard, may or may have not gotten me pregnant. Me! Quinn Fabray, pregnant." She chuckled dryly. "Can you imagine that?" she mumbles softly.

His mouth dropped open wide, and his eyes bludge. "P-p-pregnant? he stutters out, shaking his head. "No, we used protection, so there's no chance."

She shook her head again, slumping against the car door. "There's a 0.01 percent chance Puckerman, and I guess we were just the lucky people who feel victim to that statistic."

He fiddled with the end of his jacket, swallowing. "What are you going to do?" he asked, meeting her eyes for a brief second before they both pull away.

"Honestly? I really don't know. But right now I have to go and buy a million tests and the biggest carton of apple juice they have so I can take them before Mass tonight. Then if I am pregnant, well I'll just try and work something out. But if I'm not then I will pray so hard at Church, thanking God, and we'll both go our other ways. It was just a onetime thing, right?" She rose an eyebrow, looking up at him. "Right?"

He nodded softly. "Yeah, just a one time thing," he repeated. "Never going to be repeated, I promise."

"Well, if you will excuse me I have to go see if my life is going to be ruined," she pronounced, chuckling. "Goodbye, Puck."

"Bye, Quinn."

She chuckled, opening the car door.

_You can do this. _

_You are Quinn Fabray, and you can deal with anything. _

**xxx**

She had exactly fifty minutes before Mass started, and a large pile of pregnancy tests to take. She had taken one of each brand that the supermarket had, in order to rule out a false positive or a false negative test, which she certainly did not want. She just wanted answers, and she was going to get them, one way or the other.

She had chugged down the three-litre carton of apple juice while driving back home, and now was waiting for the effects to take place. The nerves were rising in her, and she paced around the room, back and forth, eyes watching the clock tick slowly.

Quinn grabbed a few tests, and walked into the bathroom slamming the door behind her. The tests were lined up on the bench when she was done with them, repeating the pattern over and over until she couldn't pee anymore and there were no tests left on her bed.

Now she just had to wait.

She scoffed softly, slamming the toilet lid down and sighing.

_She could wait. _

**xxx**

She approached him at school, early in the morning and before the first bell rang. Tapping him on the shoulder, she smoothed down her Cheerios uniform with a sly smile.

He stared her down, eyebrow rising. "So?" he asked.

She giggled softly, shaking her head. "I drank a ton of apple juice last night, and took about fifteen, sixteen tests, alright," she begins to say. "And out of those only one was a positive, and it looked more like a negative to me anyway. It wasn't like I could ask my parents but I'm pretty sure that it was smudged so that doesn't count."

"So, you're not pregnant?" he questioned, slamming his locker door shut.

"I'm not pregnant," she repeated. "Never was, never will be. Thank god."

Both of his eyebrows rose at this, and he shook his head softly.

"No, I didn't mean it like that," she says, giggling. "I just meant, well can you imagine us with a baby? We'd be horrible at raising one Puck, and you know it. Hell, we don't even get along at the best of time, I never wanted you to be tied to me because of a stupid mistake we made one night."

He whirled around, shaking his head. "A stupid mistake?" he repeated, chuckling. "Maybe that's all it was too you Quinn, but to me it was a lot more. You mean more to me than any other girl in this school, but hey whatever. You have Finn, so I'm not gonna overstep my friendship boundaries. Just know that if you were pregnant, I would have tried my damn hardest to support you, and the kid," his hand lingered near her stomach before he drew it away with a sharp sigh, "and I would have loved you. But hey, whatever." He shook his head again, walking away.

He left her standing in the bustling hallway with a hand on her stomach, wishing that she were pregnant.


	10. Wendy Brune: Snuffed

**Snuffed  
**

Author: Wendy Brune

Fandom: Glee

Claim: Jesse St. James

**A/N:** Set between the first and second season.

* * *

Jesse St. James doesn't know how to be poor. Spend-thrifty, maybe, but definitely not poor. When he thinks of poor, he thinks of the lazy bums he sees outside the McDonald's every day, dressed in rags and stinking of piss; he thinks of the women he sees at the super-market, paying for their purchases with food-stamps. He thinks of those people – dirty people, lazy people, ugly people, _untalented_ people – as poor.

No one can say that he's any of those things. Jesse isn't dirty; he showers two times a day, thankyouverymuch. (Impeccably full and shiny hair doesn't just spring up over night.) He'd be flabbergasted to hear anyone call him lazy; he practices his singing and dance moves a minimum of three hours a day. Maybe he's a biased judge, but when it comes to being beautiful, his face _is_ 98.7% symmetric – nearly the Golden Ratio. (He plans to get the other 1.3% fixed via the blade after his first big paycheck.)

But even if he didn't have any of those things, the one thing Jesse. St. James will always have is talent; pure, raw talent. There's no doubt that he's the best of the best in Vocal Adrenaline, never mind New Directions. He more than outshines those Lima losers.

No, Jesse St. James doesn't meet any of the requirements for poor.

So why is he?

He's so ashamed. Lima's brightest star's all out of gas, and now he's stuck at some lame community college, taking business classes and throwing his life away. He no longer lives at home - his parents gave him enough money for a cheap, smelly apartment, but they promised that was it. He'll have to get some sort of job if he wants any money to survive on. He can pretend this is an acting exercise all he wants, but he knows the truth; the full ride to UCLA? Gone. Bright and shining future? Gone. Supportive parents with an unlimited checkbook at hand? Gone, too. It's all gone.

The one thing he'll always have, though, is regret. If he'd known what it was going to cost him, he would have never gotten into that car after that party. Because apparently, one DUI is enough to lose a full-ride scholarship. Apparently, one DUI is enough to make your parents vow to stop supporting you financially.

Apparently one DUI is enough to completely snuff out your rising star.


End file.
